


For Us Who Were Once Lost

by Alice_In_The_Sky



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: M/M, Warning!, rating just went up a bit, some blood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alice_In_The_Sky/pseuds/Alice_In_The_Sky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sycamore lowered his eyes once more and returned to his task of applying disinfectant on the other man's wounded hand. All scratched up with knuckles that had bled from punching some wretched Targent thug earlier that day. The wound bubbled when drops of the liquid landed on the open, bloody skin. Layton flinched but didn't move away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't realize I pressed the post button instead of the save in drafts one. It wasn't quite finished yet. I still don't want to think of them being blood related... I'm in denial so the bit at the end of Azran Legacy isn't quite true here.

The hands in his own were rough and warm; calloused but almost elegant with long fingers that were perfect for playing the piano. They told of many long nights of tears and toil. But they were  _that man's_  hands nonetheless, and the feel of them in his own was comfort enough to make up for all those lonely nights of wondering and hoping that  _he_  was well and happy and living.

The boy he loved had grown up.

Gone was the softness of boyhood innocence. And the memories as well.

 _He doesn't remember me._  Sycamore thought. It was just as well. After all, who would want to remember something like what they went through? Surely it was best this way.

As much as he told himself that it was all for the best, he could not stop the pang of sadness that seeped into his soul at the thought that the boy who once never left his side, who always demanded for his hands to be held whenever they walked, no longer knew him.

Perhaps there was some bitterness there too. He squashed the thought as soon as it formed though. He wanted this. He wished and prayed for this.

"Professor Sycamore?"

Sycamore looked up from the hand he held in his, to the one whom they belonged to.

"Yes?"

"Is something else the matter with my hand?" Layton asked, confusion written all over his countenance.

Sycamore lowered his eyes once more and returned to his task of applying disinfectant on the other man's wounded hand. All scratched up with knuckles that had bled from punching some wretched Targent thug earlier that day. The wound bubbled when drops of the liquid landed on the open, bloody skin. Layton flinched but didn't move away.

"You must be careful with your hands, Layton." Sycamore said. "It would not do to have them injured so early in the chase."

"I couldn't have them take away Aurora." Layton explained. "Who knows what they would've done to her."

Sycamore knew exactly what they would do to her. He'd seen it happen twice in his life already and he'd rather not think about those. Their parents taken, kicking and screaming; his family's bodies on the ground bathed in their life's blood.

He knew much better than anyone else what Targent was capable of.

He must've applied the medicine too hard on Layton's wounds, for the man suddenly hissed loudly in pain. Startled from his dark thoughts, he dropped the tweezers and knocked the bottle of Hydrogen Peroxide. The bottle shattered into a million little pieces. Its contents spilled on the room's floor, slowly crawling into a much larger puddle by their feet. The wood, darkening at its wake.

Layton was about to move to pick up the pieces but Sycamore gripped his hand to stop him.

"Ignore it." Sycamore said in a voice that brooked no arguments.

At first he thought Layton wouldn't obey but after a moment, he returned once more to his former position, sitting more comfortably by the older man's side. Sycamore nodded and dressed the injured hand very carefully. A bit of Layton's blood stained the white bandages, dyeing it crimson. It reminded him of his daughter's favorite white, dress. The one he gave her on her fourth birthday.

The last time he saw her wearing it, it was no longer white.

"Professor Sycamore, are you all right?" Layton's voice sounded so worried.

Was he all right? He wasn't quite certain anymore. He wasn't sure he would be at all. The only thing he could do now was to finish what he started and release all his vengeance upon those that stole what was precious to him, whatever the cost.

Even if it meant it would hurt Layton.

He kept telling himself that it was for Layton's sake as well as his own. But that didn't mean he himself was convinced. He had grown selfish in the years of bitter loneliness and grief. Sow vengeance and two graves were dug it was said. He was certain one of those graves were his.

Sycamore patted the injured hand, gently, unwilling to let go, wishing he could keep it in his so he wouldn't forget its warmth that reminded him so much of home and family and love. He pressed a tender kiss on the injured knuckles and prayed silently that they would heal soon. An apology, perhaps, for the peril he caused before all this and would cause in this dangerous quest. Layton would never forgive him but that didn't mean he couldn't do this one thing for him.

Sycamore let his hand go and when he lifted his gaze to the other man, Layton's face was unreadable. Emotions danced behind his dark eyes.

"No." Sycamore replied to the question. "But perhaps once day I will be."

Before Layton could say anything else -to thank him at least- Sycamore stood and walked away. The door quietly shut behind him with a click and left Layton alone in the room.

The liquid spilled on the floor continued to crawl upon the wooden tiles. The sharp, shattered pieces of the bottle glistened, ominously, in the afternoon light. A sign of what came before and a herald of what was to come.

 

 

* * *

  **END OF PART ONE**

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm... Not quite certain but I think I should warn you that there will be some blood here and perhaps trigger some unpleasant things.
> 
> Just a warning. Other than that, I hope this is all right.

_"So another letter came?"_

_Sycamore glanced up from the letter in his hands to the beautiful vision that was his wife with a smile on his lips. There was something about how the afternoon light that made her whole person glow. Her long hair and her laughing, shining eyes always made his heart flutter and never failed to take his breath away._

_Her arms folded, she waited for his response. Sycamore smiled._

_"Yes." He replied._

_She walked into the room. He could see her bare, white feet peeking from under the bottom of her skirt. Alabaster skin that glowed in the light. She was almost ethereal in his opinion. She moved, to his ever surprise, with the grace of a dancer though she had two left feet._

_"How is he?" She asked._

_"Quite well." He replied, cheerfully. "It seems that the University of Gressenheller had decided to hire him as a professor of Archaeology."_

_"Is it a letter from Uncle Hershel?"_

_Both adults turned and noticed a little girl in white, peeking from behind the door. His wife beckoned for her to come in and the little girl grinned._

_"When do we get to meet Uncle Hershel?" The little girl asked, eagerly, running into the study._

_The pitter-patter of her feet and the ruffling sounds of her white dress-_ always that white dress- _was heard. There were stray flower petals tangled in her hair, he observed. She might've gone off and played in the neighbor's flower garden on the sly. He would have to apologize to them later if there were any damages._

_Sycamore laughed and picked up his daughter for her to sit on his lap. She had lost one of her front teeth a few hours ago so there was a gap in her otherwise, white grinning teeth._

_"Perhaps soon." He replied. "I will have to... talk to his parents first. See if they will allow it."_

_She cheered and clapped her hands._

_"Is he like you, papa?" She asked, eagerly._

_At the subject though, he scowled. Sensing something amiss, his wife placed a hand on his._

_"You don't approve?"_

_"Of what?"_

_"Archaeology? For Hershel I mean."_

_"Of course not." He huffed, massaging his temples. "I hoped he wouldn't get into the same interests." He gestured with his hands vaguely. "If Targent realizes what field he's in, I'm quite certain they'll come after him again." He sighed, heavily. "I... worry for him."_

_She stepped around the desk and placed her arms around his shoulders, comfortingly. He leaned back against her bosom, eyes closed. Her warmth eased some of the anxiousness in him but not completely._

_"You worry for him constantly, I must say." She teased. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think Hershel was a small babe."_

_He chuckled. "He just has a penchant for finding trouble it seems." He remarked._

_"Reminds me of someone." She teased._

_He gently pulled her down. "Now who could that be?" He whispered._

_"Don't squish me!" The little girl squeaked._

_Both stopped before they could kiss, glancing at the girl, pouting between them and laughed. She wriggled away from them and jumped off his lap, her laughter echoing as she ran out the study and to the hallways of their house. Her white dress fluttering in her rush._

_"There she goes." Sycamore said. "She has a lot of energy for a four year old. I don't remember having that much energy."_

_"Not even Hershel when you were both children?"_

_"Oh, he was a whole different level!" He exclaimed. "Not even three of our daughter could match how much danger he'd get into!" He paused and sighed wearily. "I'm so tired, my Darling.... I promised you that I would avenge your deaths... And yet... I'm so tired..."_

_She frowned then turned his chair toward her so they were face-to-face. Her anxious countenance made his heart clench. Her arms remained around his shoulders._

_"Then stop." She said, simply. "Desmond, we never wanted this! Go somewhere far, far away where they would never get you. Run. Live a new life. A happier one."_

_"I can't."_

_"Why?"_

_He drew away from her embrace to pace from his desk to the windows._

_"There's no place on earth that's safe from Targent and **he** is in their sights now. Especially since Misthallery..." He explained. Anguish. "My folly and my arrogance in Monte d'Or... and Ambrosia..." He buried his face in his palms. "I put him there..." He murmured as if he suddenly saw sense. "Oh, god! I put him in their sights...!"_

_When he looked up, he saw his reflection on the windowpane. The emotionless visage of Jean Descole gazed back at him._

_"Then take him with you!" She shouted. As if it was that simple. "Desmond, run and take him away with you!"_

Too late. _Descole replied for him._ They are coming.

_Sycamore spun on his heel to his wife and threw his arms around her. Held her tightly with trembling arms._

_"No!"_

_She drew away. "Darling, they already know." She said, very gravely._

_He looked up at her, eyes wide in shock, expecting his wife. Instead, he was faced with the empty room. Ransacked. Papers and books littered the floors. The window panes now shattered all around. A chilly breeze sending shivers skittering down his spine._

_A trail of blood, soaked the once pristine carpeted floors._

_Too much blood._

_Far too much blood._

_His heart hammered in his chest and cold sweat on his skin, soaking his clothes._

Again. _He murmured, dread in his heart and ice in veins._ It's happening again.

_He couldn't control his body. His feet carried him slowly across the halls, toward the parlour. The eerie silence of the house -which was only a few moments ago, alive with his daughter's laughter- deafening. It rang in his ears like static from a dead radio station. His footfalls, were loud against the wooden floor; sounding "tap-tap-tap" in the quiet._

Don't turn there! _He shouted in his mind._

_Yet, his body did not stop. The door at the end of the hallway was slightly ajar. With trembling hands he pushed it open-_

_There was blood on the floor. So much blood that it rose up to his ankles. The walls of the parlour were stained and splattered in crimson. It dripped in his trembling hands despite not touching anything yet. His clothes clung to his frame and his face wet with tears and sweat. His wife and daughter by his feet._

_The white dress..._

_It was her favorite dress..._

_A familiar, mad laughter echoed across the room. One that he feared he would never forget._

Too late. _Descole whispered appearing by his side. Sorrow lacing the words with finality._ It's far too late.

_Sycamore's eyes followed, where Descole pointed. And he saw, face down on the red, red ground, lay Hershel Layton's unmoving figure._

 

* * *

**END OF PART TWO**

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Umm... Was it all right? I know it's supposed to be a happy holiday but Desmond won't leave me alone and I wrote angst?? But have a happy holiday anyway. XDD
> 
> I hope it's all right. I'm not quite certain about this one but... I hope it's all right.


	3. The Lateness of the Hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The hour grows late... His heart yet beats. But for how long more?"

 

* * *

  **RAYMOND**

* * *

 

It was not his place.

It truly wasn't, and yet he couldn't help but notice his Master's eyes always seemed to be following Layton's movements wherever he went. His gaze tracked every action, every small gesture the younger professor seemed to be making as if afraid he would suddenly injure himself in some unknown way.

The notion was absurd.

They were safe within the confines of the Bostonius, hundreds of miles above land. There would be no intruders here unless someone managed to board their ship without their knowledge. The security on the ship was flawless. He made certain of that. He didn't want anyone harming the Master in his watch. He swore to the Lady Sycamore's grave that. And he had always been faithful to the Sycamores. To the current Master even more so. Because Heaven knows, the Master had a death wish.

Still, every once in a while, he hoped and prayed that he would abandon this useless thirst for vengeance. With the appearance of Professor Layton, whom the Master had taken a liking to, it seemed that wish was rekindled, mayhap even granted one way or the other. Raymond did not care who could restart the beating of the Master's heart, so long as it made him burn with the same flame he once had that time long ago, when he was surrounded by a family that loved him so.

This was a blessing.

And also a curse.

Because it was far too late for that.

It was too late since Misthallery.

Far too late.

He had no choice but to watch the tragedy unfold with bated breath and hope against hope that they all survived long enough to pick up whatever pieces were left to them.

 

* * *

**EMMY**

* * *

 

There was something odd with the way Professor Sycamore watched Professor Layton.

It was almost as if, he was afraid that the man would suddenly disappear. It looked like Professor Sycamore had developed some sort of separation anxiety, with the way, he always seemed to follow Professor Layton about with his eyes and always made excuses to keep him within his sights.

Emmy was no fool.

It was obvious that whatever it was that triggered it, rattled his nerves so. There were times, when Professor Sycamore stood up, he'd clench his hands to fists, trying to stop himself from doing  _something._ He looked ready, in a moment's notice, to suddenly just take her professor by the hand and run away to safety. Wherever safety was.

Emmy sighed, sadly. 

There was no safe place for any of her companions.

She was Targent. Whatever she needed to do would be done because **_that man_** willed it so. And she would do anything for that man whom she owed her life to.

But some part of her, hoped - _The_ _most treacherous, vilest thing there ever was._  Her mind whispered.- that it would end well for everyone and for them not to hate her so much.

 

* * *

**LUKE AND KEATS**

* * *

 

"Smells of death."

Luke, very much startled, looked up to the direction of the voice yet saw no one nearby. Emmy and Aurora were in the kitchen with Raymond, preparing their lunch so they were not in the Bostonius' common room. Professor Sycamore was piloting the ship and Professor Layton stood by his side, listening with rapt attention, as he was regaled with stories of how the Bostonius was built.

They were quite far from where he sat so the voice couldn't have been from them. Immediately, a shiver ran up and down Luke's spine, his overactive imagination running circles about his mind. He thought he was hearing ghosts.

"Smells of death." The voice once more stated.

It took him a few more nervous heartbeats to realize that the one who spoke was Keats, sitting comfortably on the sofa, licking its dark, furry paws that glinted an odd purple in the light. Luke breathed a sigh of relief and smiled awkwardly at the cat.

"You gave me a fright." He scolded gently.

Keats fixed him that haughty gaze that all cats had yet didn't stop grooming himself. Pink tongue licking the paw.

"Who?" Luke asked. "Me?"

 _Curiosity killed the cat_. It was said. And he was quite curious who the cat meant.

"Them." The cat nudged his nose toward the two professors by the control panels. "Both smell of death."

His blood suddenly turned cold in his veins and dread dropped in his stomach at the statement. Cats were known to be witches' familiars and animals in general had a far different sense of the world than humans did. Was there something wrong with the two men?

"Are they... going to..?" Luke slowly asked.

Sensing the fear in the child, Keats huffed and lazily walked towards him, then sat on his lap.

"Don't know." Keats said. "I'm a cat. A very intelligent cat but even I'm not able to tell futures of you humans. You lot are so complicated."

"Then what do you mean?"

Keats laid its head on his crossed paws, tail swished behind him like a snake. Luke ran a palm over the puzzle cat's soft fur.

"They both smell like death." Keats replied, simply.

When Luke scowled, Keats sighed, an exasperated sound as much as a cat could.

"They smell like...freshly dug earth and dead flowers." The cat replied. "It's a very sad smell."

"I've always thought it would smell like blood or rotting... something."

"Only the bad humans smell like that." Keats said. "Them? They're both just very lonely. Like their mate is gone."

Luke knew about Professor Layton's sweetheart, his father told him about it but he wasn't sure about Professor Sycamore. He seemed to always be smiling.

"Lonely? Why?" Luke wondered, out loud. It had been so long since Professor Layton's sweetheart passed away and in Luke's opinion, he seemed to be doing fine.

Keats gazed at him with wise, cryptic eyes that only cats had.

"I forget sometimes that you are still a kitten." Keats purred.

For even though Keats was an intelligent cat, he was a poor judge of human age. And Luke was mature for his age. At being called a kitten, Luke, bristled in annoyance but the cat continued.

"Sometimes," The cat said. "the one who love us the greatest, is the one who will give us the most exquisite, most excruciating pain."

He jumped down from his warm perch and padded toward Professor Sycamore, rubbing his head and his body on his legs. The human grunted, scowling down at the cat but didn't move to scare him away. Layton chuckled at his annoyance but didn't try to remove the cat. Luke could only observe its graceful, deadly movements from where he sat.

"The hour grows late..." Keats said, cryptically. "His heart yet beats. But for how long more?"

It would be months later that Luke realized who and what the cat meant.

 

 

* * *

**AURORA**

* * *

 

 

She heard and understood what the cat told Luke. And though she did not have a heart beat as everyone seemed to, she still felt as if it was breaking. 

She couldn't fathom the reasons why it felt like she was watching the world shatter and break all around her and could do nothing to stop it.

In hindsight, Keats was right.

"The hour grows ever late..." She murmured to the darkness that night.

 

* * *

**END OF PART THREE**

* * *

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He opened the door to the hallway and almost uttered a loud cry when he was met, unexpectedly, with a pair of red, red eyes gazing back at him.
> 
> Desmond Sycamore sat, huddled on the floor, back against the wall in the other side, watching him intently.

It had been three nights hence.

For whatever reason, something disturbed his sleep. His body craved for the respite only slumber could bring. But as soon as his eyes start to close, something seemed to wake him. It was not the bed, nor Luke's gentle snoring in the other side of their room. It wasn't even the airship that was sailing smoothly across the night sky. And Keats had decided that night to stay in the ladies' bedroom. He should have been able to rest.

Yet, here he was, uneasily turning in his bed. The feeling of disquiet tainted his mind. Whatever it was that caused it, he was quite certain he would not sleep again that night.

Frustrated, he threw the quilt off him and hissed when his bare feet touched the cool, wooden floor. Luke muttered something incomprehensible in his dreaming. For a moment, Layton thought, he'd woken the boy up. Once more Luke settled, calmly back onto his pillow, kicking his own quilt off of him. Layton quietly walked to his bedside, gently lifted the boy's hanging leg from the bed then once more covered him with the quilt. Luke uttered a sigh of contentment, snuggling in his nest of quilts and pillows. The sight warmed Layton's heart.

Luke would grow up to be a great man. Layton knew this for a fact and hoped that when that day came, he would be there to see it.

Murmuring a soft 'sweet dreams' to the boy, Layton took his dressing gown from the chair by his bed and put it on. He opened the door to the hallway and almost uttered a loud cry when he was met, unexpectedly, with a pair of red, red eyes gazing back at him.

Desmond Sycamore sat, huddled on the floor, back against the wall in the other side, watching him intently.

As soon as his heart calmed, Layton shut the door quietly behind him then frowned down at the other man.

"Professor Sycamore? What are you doing out here?" He asked, in hushed tones. 

Sycamore didn't answer. Layton knelt before him, suddenly quite frightened. The older man appeared to be confused, dazed. The intensity of his red gaze bore into Layton, filling him with more unease. Could this be what caused his insomnia? Layton reached out to touch his shoulder but the other man, sunk further into himself that Layton withdrew his hand. 

"How long have you been out here?" Layton asked, softly.

"Long enough." Sycamore replied.

"Why?"

Sycamore didn't answer. Layton noticed how the other man shivered like a leaf in the cold. Afraid that any sudden moves might startle the older man and yet concerned that he might catch a death of a cold, Layton removed his dressing gown and laid it upon the man's shoulders. The shivering stopped almost immediately. In his dazed state, Sycamore felt the warmth and the caught the scent of the other man on the article. When Layton moved away, Sycamore caught his hand - _the bandaged one_ \- and stopped him in his tracks. Sycamore looked down at it with all the sadness and yearning he had never seen in another broken man before. 

"Desmond...?" Layton whispered, softly. So very softly. 

Sycamore with the other hand, ran his rough, ice-cold fingers upon the back of Layton's hand tenderly. The white linen bandages long since, replaced with new ones that had no mark of blood upon it.

"I'm sorry..." He whispered, brokenly. "I'm so very sorry..."

"Desmond, what's wrong?" He asked, his concern mounting.

The apologies didn't cease. And Layton...

Layton didn't understand what the apologies were for.

 

 

* * *

**END OF PART FOUR**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa... two chapters...
> 
> I seem to have the urge to write whenever my deadlines are near... I have still have stuff to draw. T_T And a daily drawing to do. T_T Why does inspiration strike at the most inconvenient of times? It's like an itch I have to scratch!! GAAAAAAH!!!! I'm going to get coffee now. Need caffeine. T_T It's 1am where I am now... I need sleep but I also have to finish stuff... 
> 
> I'll have another chapter soon. hopefully tomorrow night when I'm slightly more sane... Or maybe less.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Theodore..." Layton repeated. "Who is Theodore...?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost the new year. So I greet you, Happy New Year! XD May this coming year give you lots and lots of happiness!!! XDD

The morning came far too early for Layton's liking. Despite usually being an early riser, the events of last night, coupled with the past few nights of restless tossing and turning in bed, made him more weary than before. Professor Sycamore's odd behavior did not help matters. In fact, it made him all the more confused. The elder professor didn't seem to know what he had done. When asked, the man looked at him, blankly.

Layton then deduced that he was sleepwalking. Whatever nightmares that haunted the older man must have been truly horrible if he had been reduced to such a state. Or perhaps, they were memories.

The man once mentioned he had a wife and daughter. And from his observations, the man was not estranged nor divorced from them. The only logical answer to the question was that both had passed away. And not in a good way either, judging from the viciousness of his hatred for Targent.

Layton could only guess the horrors they had unleashed upon the man and his family.

Layton sighed as he prepared himself for another sleepless night. The thoughts continued to whirl in his mind while he waited for the inevitable pull that was to come. Tonight though, Layton decided that he must find out what caused it. If not for Sycamore's sanity then for his own. He couldn't leave the man alone in the hallway. 

The pull between them was too strong for him to resist. In the deep recesses of his mind, he knew the other man.

As for the how and the why... He didn't understand.

Layton threw off the quilt as soon as he felt _-not heard-_ the other man's presence outside his door. Taking one last sweeping gaze about the room, he wore his dressing gown over his pyjamas, forgetting to tie it, and quietly opened the door. 

He jolted, the sudden shock when his eyes met piercing red ones, still kept him on his toes. Just as he had done the past few nights, Sycamore sat huddled on the floor with his back against the wall, gazing at him as if he was a ghost. Layton shut the door behind him, silently; taking care not to wake Luke as he did so.  Then turned his attention once more to Sycamore.

To his surprise, it was Sycamore spoke first.

"Theodore?" He called out, confused. The other man stood and reached out to hold both Layton's hands in his, concerned. "Is something the matter? Did you have another nightmare?"

Whatever Layton was expecting, it wasn't that. He opened his mouth to say something but Sycamore spoke once more, pulling him into an embrace and running fingers in his hair as one would to comfort a child.

"It'll be all right." Sycamore cooed, voice soft and very kind. "Those people... They won't come here anymore. They won't take you away."

Sycamore gazed at him with affection but there was something else in his eyes Layton couldn't place. Something familiar.

"So don't worry, Theodore." He soothed.

He could no longer keep his mouth closed. His curiosity got the better of him.

"Who's Theodore?"

Sycamore's devastated face made Layton regret he ever said anything. As if waking from a dream, Sycamore staggered back, and shook his head.

"Desmond...?" Uncertain.

Sycamore raised his head then squinted.

"Layton? What are you doing here?"

"I-"

Sycamore looked around, scowling. "For that matter, what am I doing here?" he turned to Layton. "My apologies for keeping you up."

He reached out and straightened the collar on Layton's pyjama shirt, smiling. Then gave him a nod and turned to walk away.

"Desmond!"

Sycamore stopped, mid-step, giving him a sideways glance.

"Hm?"

Layton opened his mouth. There were many things Layton wanted to ask. The questions whirled around in his head over and over. But the memory of the other man's face when he asked the question in the forefront in his mind, played once more and he hadn't the heart to ask anymore.

Not yet.

The question died in his lips.

"Layton?" Sycamore prompted.

Layton smiled. "Pleasant dreams."

Sycamore's smile was brilliant. "Pleasant dreams to you too."

Layton watched him disappear into his room at the end of the hallway then sighed, feeling a little off somehow. He stepped into his room and laid down on his bed, willing his mind to quiet long enough to get some sleep.

"Theodore..." Layton repeated. "Who is Theodore...?"

 

 

* * *

**END OF PART FIVE**

* * *

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The sound of laughter was heard about as the cherry cake was brought out from the kitchen and taken outside where they decided to have their picnic.

It was baked on a whim. Luke had remarked that afternoon that he missed Lucille's cherry cake. The one they ate soon after they left London. Emmy all to readily agreed. Sycamore had agreed that it would be quite nice to have it again and Raymond chuckled for it was the best he'd ever had.

Layton was a gentleman and he inquired if they had enough ingredients for it. The residents of the airship perked up at that.

"I'd be glad to make it. Fair warning though, I'm not quite as good as Ma so you may have to settle for second or third best."

Luke and Emmy felt their mouths water at the sight and Aurora looked delighted at the prospect of having another cake. Keats, that silly little puzzle cat, decided that it also wanted some. Luke had to explain that it might not be good for him. The poor cat mewled pitifully but was sated when it took one sniff at it, then huffed away.

They chose to land by a small hill surrounded by a vast meadow dotted with small, yellow flowers. It was a short break. A small picnic. A world away from their quest wrought with peril. But it was a welcome respite.

Surrounded by the green, green meadows and the bright, yellow flowers, they ate and were merry. For a few hours, they could forget what lay ahead.

Aurora gathered yellow flowers by the armful, smiling in a way that made Layton forget what they were up against. In their company, she learned how to smile, to laugh. Sycamore could almost imagine all of them together, forever flying on that red airship across the sky.

Their little family.

Emmy and Luke made wreaths of those yellow flowers or at least tried to. The end product looked rather poor and wretched little things, Aurora not fairing any better. It was Sycamore who rescued the poor flower wreaths. His nimble fingers weaving the stems in and out, showing the younger ones how to do it.

Savouring the peace and calm breezes, Layton breathed in the fresh air, filling his lungs, closing his eyes as he did so.

He recalled a memory from when he was young. They had picnic like this on a calm day. Someone, a boy a few years older than him was with him then, teaching him how to make flower wreaths out of yellow flowers. Smiling at him like he was the world to them.

He frowned.

There was a boy...

Who was that boy?

Why couldn't he remember?

Behind his closed eyelids, he saw the boy approach him, holding a wreath of yellow flowers to place on his head. And when the flowers landed on his head, the boy opened his mouth and spoke:

**_"Theodore."_ **

"What did you call me?" He whispered, voice suddenly gone hoarse, eyes wide in shock.

Perplexed, Sycamore was kneeling where he sat on the grassy ground, returned that same look at him. His hands still frozen where they dropped the wreath that now rested upon his head. He wore a wreath of his own, on his brow.

All of them were.

"Layton." He answered then continued. That worried furrow in his brows appeared. "Is something the matter?"

Layton opened his mouth but nothing came out. It was only when Sycamore reached out to wipe a lone tear from his face that he stirred. He hadn't even noticed or known why it was there.

"Layton, what's wrong?" He asked, concerned.

Layton shook himself and smiled. His lips trembled.

"I'm all right. My apologies. I thought you just called me something else." He gestured to their headdress. "Did you make these?"

"Just that one." Sycamore replied. "This one" He touched the flowers on his hair. "was made by Aurora."

"Thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

Sycamore stood and turned when he was called, this time by Luke, as they laughed in their delight at Keats who sported a necklace of yellow. When he followed, only Layton remained on the ground, watching.

Frozen in that moment, Layton recalled that there was a boy whose face he could not quite remember but knew he adored.

The boy who made him yellow flower wreaths on a day like this.

****

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**END OF PART SIX**

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took a while to update. Sorry. So busy lately. I'll have another in a couple of days that hopefully is nice. 
> 
> This was inspired by that art in the bonus part when you complete the game. There's an illustration there of the Bostonius parked at night and then I thought maybe they take breaks too. XD Hope it was all right. Spelling and grammar errors if there are (there always are whenever I write no matter how much I try to edit... I always seem to miss some...) will be fixed.


	7. Chapter 7

They stopped at London to refuel on their way to their next destination.

They'd been flying around for months by then. And then they received news that there was a huge and new improvement in Gressenheller's Archaeology department. A new machine for carbon dating. It was worth taking a gander at while they were in the city. Unfortunately, they were disappointed when Clark Triton had told them that the machine was under repair because someone couldn't resist and tried it out without permission. They got a couple of puzzles out of it though. 

But, it would be a day more to finish refueling and another day more to finish restocking their supplies.

Raymond, earlier, had ushered them all out, telling them to stretch their legs and leave everything to him. They protested, of course, for the man hardly left the airship. If anyone needed to stretch their legs, it was him. However the old butler merely shook his head with a smile and continued to push them out the airship. He warned them that he didn't want to see them on the ship while they were in London until the fuel and restocking were done, aware that they all had homes in the city. Except for Sycamore whom Layton invited to stay with him.

Sycamore suspected Raymond just didn't want anyone else to see whatever else was hidden within the Bostonius. Keats, remained by Raymond's side, content to follow the old man around, while giving him that Cheshire cat, all knowing smile. Sycamore didn't trust that cat one whit. He voiced this concerns about that puzzle cat to Layton once and the other man had the audacity to _laugh_ at him. Loudly.

Granted, it was rather nice to hear the man laugh like that. It made it much harder to feel insulted.

By some luck, they met Roland outside Gressenheller who suggested they all stay at the Layton Family Home.

"You won't fit in Hershel's flat." He deadpanned. "That place, it's a _mess!_ Books, _everywhere!_ " He stated.

The embarrassed flush on the younger professor's cheeks was enough to convince them it was true. He didn't even try to justify the state of his flat. How could he? He was a gentleman and gentlemen shouldn't lie. He had been in a hurry to leave and almost neglected to tell the landlady where he would be off to, had Luke not reminded him. He was quite certain the plant by his windowsill had wilted by now. Briefly, he contemplated on just getting plastic plants. Sycamore chuckled at the expression on his friend's face. 

Roland immediately took notice of him. He raised his bushy eyebrows for a moment, then as if suddenly realizing an old friend had appeared, a small smile appeared and he was even more insistent they stay. Emmy and Luke declined. They had homes nearby. And when Sycamore tried to decline as well, Roland hurmphed and shook his head.

"Nonsense, my boy!" He said. "You are to come. You haven't even tasted Lucille's cooking! I can't, in good conscience, allow you to sleep in the airship while staying here!"

"I assure you, the Bostonius' beds are quite comfortable."

"It would do Lucille good to see you again." Roland said, seriously. "It's been a very long time..."

The shock was evident in Sycamore's countenance. Layton watched both men, silently and Sycamore could already hear the gears turning in the man's head. He did mention earlier that he knew Layton's parents. He just didn't expect to be recognized at all. While, he felt that it might not be a good idea to stay with them, the look on Roland's face was enough to quell whatever protests he had. It seemed almost hopeful or eager. Or as eager as he could look behind the busy eyebrows. Sycamore pushed his glasses against his face and smiled.

"Very well. If you don't mind, then I shall." He replied. "Thank you."

Roland gave them both a nod and had them follow him to the bus stop. The ride to the suburbs was comfortable enough. Roland had Layton regale him with stories of their adventures so far, the old man hummed and commented and ran a hand on his bushy beard with a smile and sometimes laughed that loud booming laugh, that reminded Sycamore of Father Christmas. The busy streets made way for more trees and less traffic outside the window until they arrived  at their stop. It was a quiet neighborhood from Sycamore's first glance. Without a word, he followed father and son for a few more minutes to the Layton Home.

The house itself, looked the same as the rest of the houses that lined that area. But the garden was in full bloom compared to the others. It was obviously well-tended to. Flowers lined the path from the white, wooden gate and herbs grew in one of the corners. Upon closer inspection, the house, for some reason, looked more homey and cheerful even from the outside. The windows were wide open, welcoming. The scent of newly cooked food permeated the air as they walked closer. Sycamore took a deep breath glad to be breathing air that wasn't confined in a small space.

Everything about the place-the scent, the sight the _feel_ -was all of the things he could ever hope for.

Everything about it was home.

 _"Lucille, my dear!_  Look who I've brought me! Come out and open the door, woman! I have a surprise for you!" Roland shouted with glee.

From behind the door, they heard footfalls and then, muttering.

"I swear, Roland," Lucille began from behind the door. Her voice, getting slightly louder as she moved closer. "if it's another one of your nonsense, you'll have not a bite for supper tonight! You eat enough for a whole army and _Goodness_ knows, you could do with a diet."

Layton hid the smile behind his hand at his father's affronted look.

Roland cleared his throat. "How can a man keep to his diet, if his dear wife cooked as well as you?" He quipped.

"Perhaps, I should try burning the pie then? That ought to teach you a lesson!" She exclaimed.

The door opened and showed Lucille, flour spattered apron and all, with a teasing smile. But the smile turned into one of pleased "Oh!" and not a moment sooner was Hershel Layton instantly embraced and lifted bodily up from the ground. Sycamore tried to stifle the laughter bubbling in his throat at the sight of such a small lady such as her lifting a grown man like Layton.

"Ma!" Layton squawked. (He would later deny that he squawked.) "I've missed you as well, however if you please... Could you put me down a moment?"

She put him down, positively beaming at him.

"Oh, goodness me! _Hershel!_ I didn't know you were coming! I haven't seen you in months!!" She glanced behind him. "And you've brought a friend!"

She stopped in her tracks when she noticed who it was. For Sycamore's part, he didn't quite know what to expect. He smiled, as well as he could, to hide the sudden dread pooling in his gut. It was a bad idea to come. And he was certain she recognized him. But before he could make an excuse and make run for it, Lucille strode toward him, took his hands in hers, and seemed almost close to tears.

"Oh, you..." She whispered in awe. "Oh, you."

Sycamore expected many things. But not to be suddenly embraced by trembling arms, so tenderly; almost afraid that he would disappear. Her arms were strong but warm and flour had probably dusted his suit. He didn't care. Hesitantly, he gave embraced her too. 

 _I was once held like this too..._ He mused.

"It's been so long... You've grown up!" Lucille said, her voice trembling. "After that time, I thought..." She paused and shook her head. "Oh, dear me! We shouldn't be discussing this out in garden in the heat. Come in! Come in! I'm just about finished making supper! You'll be staying with us tonight, won't you? We have much to talk about."

She ushered them into the house, hurriedly. Whatever questions Layton had to ask would have to wait later for his mum had demanded they both wash up and sent them upstairs. Sycamore looked about the house as he entered. The house was cozier and welcoming as he suspected. Mementos of adventures on the mantelpiece, books lined the shelves and it was obvious they entertained many guests in the sittingroom. The scent of baking pie made his stomach grumble and for a moment, he worried they heard it. It was divine! As he moved up the stairs, he could hear the soft, excited mumbling of husband and wife in the kitchen. For a while he wondered what they were talking about.

Sycamore stopped for a moment and smiled at the photographs that lined the walls of the hallway. Pictures of the Layton family with a smiling Hershel in each and everyone of them. This was the life he could've had but he gave it away. He was glad for his sacrifice because it meant at least, the other man could grow up happy and safe.

"Sycamore?"

Sycamore turned to Layton who had also stopped walking when he noticed that his companion had not followed him.

"You have lots of photographs." Sycamore stated.

"Yes. Ma used to have a camera she was quite fond of. And she insists on taking as many as she could while I was growing up." He replied. "They... tried to have children for a very long time so when they had me, I suppose, they couldn't contain themselves." He chuckled then paused. "I... don't remember anything from before they adopted me."

"You are aware?" Sycamore asked.

Layton nodded. "It's hard not to notice." He replied at older man's frown, Layton smiled. "I have no baby pictures. And I look nothing like my parents. Haven't you noticed, I can't grow a beard nor a mustache as impressive Pa? And I certainly don't have Ma's eyes nor any physical features of hers." He touched one of the photographs framed on the wall. Of him, smiling beside his mother and father. "But despite that, they love me and I, them."

"Are you happy?" Sycamore asked, quietly.

"What?"

"Are you happy with the way things went?" He clarified. "Even if they're not of the same blood as yours?"

"Yes." Layton replied, immediately, beaming at him. "Very."

When no more questions were to be had, Layton continued to walk through the hallway and opened one of the doors to inspect the state of the room. Sycamore took a deep breath and let out a sigh of relief. Eyes closed with a smile on his lips, he nodded.

"Then it's all worth it." He whispered, more to himself then to anyone else. "I was right. Even if everything else was wrong, at least in this, I was right..."

He took a step and then another toward the room where Layton called him to.

 

* * *

**END OF PART SEVEN**

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**Author's Note:**

> Should I keep going or stop? Hoping inspiration comes soon. More than 24 hours without sleep can make one giddy. Hoping there aren't too many grammar and spelling mistakes here. If there are, I'm sorry. I'll fix it up later after the deadlines and a bit of sleep.
> 
> Hope you liked it.


End file.
